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Wednesday, 26 August 2015

The Edinburgh International Book Festival always comes at
the wrong time of year for me as it starts as the schools go back and I have to
put on my teacher’s hat again.

I still make a point of making sure I get the programme
early so that I can choose one outstanding event. In recent years I’ve been privileged
to see Willy Vlautin, Katie Kitamura and Megan Abbott for example, so you can
see I pick rather well and have impeccable taste.

This year, Ian Rankin has had the honour of being a guest
selector and he’s chosen a cracking bunch of people to talk to. When I saw he’d
chosen Viv Albertine among those names, I was on the phone buying my tickets.
Having been to the event on Sunday evening with a very good friend of mine, I
can tell you I wasn’t at all disappointed by my choice.

Ian Rankin does a brilliant job in conversation. I’ve seen
him a few times in this role and have been really impressed by his manner.
Unlike many in the facilitator role he clearly feels he has nothing to prove.
He knows his subject material and he applies insightful and open questions at
the right moment to keep things flowing. He gives his guests the opportunity to
talk and elaborate without constant interruption and that’s a big bonus in my
eyes. It’s a big skill that he has and is one that is too often under-rated in
my eyes.

Given this was a music event this was also right up Mr
Rankin’s street. Not only does he know his history, he’s lived it. Great, then,
to hear some of his own anecdotes thrown into the mix in a very light-handed
way and adding colour to the evening.

And Viv Albertine.

What to say?

The first thing I’m going to mention is the very last thing
that I expect I’m supposed to say, namely that she was utterly stunning. Not
just the way she looked, but the impact she had when walking on. Her book is entitled
Clothes,
Clothes, Clothes. Music, Music, Music. Boys, Boys, Boys (US).
It’s also called Clothes, Music, Boys if you want the Tesco-friendly cover.

She began with a reading from the book. It was an engaging
and funny account of her first gig with The Slits on the Clash’s White Riot
tour, chosen especially as it took place in Edinburgh. What images came forth
in that burst of words. It screamed punk rock and energy and possibility.

The thing is Viv Albertine was in an all-girl band at a time
when that just didn’t happen. She and her tribe were so wild-looking that there
had to be negotiations with the hotel to make them honour their booking and
then only on the condition that the girls didn’t leave their rooms and stayed
out of sight. Don Letts had to call ahead to all the rest of the hotels booked
to make sure that they knew exactly who and what was heading their way.

Viv was around at the time of an explosion. She had little
stories about Mick Jones, Sid Vicious, Johnny Rotten, Malcolm McLaren, Johnny
Thunders and Vivienne Westwood that made my hair curl (check out my picture –
that’s some feat). These people carry the status of being legends, so it was
great to hear her talk about them in such a natural way. Best of all, they didn’t
become her story. She wasn’t great to listen to because of who she knew but
because she has a hugely creative spirit and happens to have known a lot of
amazing folk along the way.

There was some talk about the famous album cover and a
rather lovely quip – ‘It was saying to the boys, come and have a go if you
think you’re hard enough’- fantastic.

A lot of the focus was upon the roles and expectations of
women back in the mid-seventies and since then. It’s incredible to reflect upon
that and to see how many things have changed. To my mind, it’s important to
revisit and remember such times and there’s unlikely to be a more rewarding way
of doing so than by taking a read of her book. It’s not that I agreed with all of
the statements made about then or now, but I admired the sense of personal
perspective that was offered and it gave me a lot to think about.

Side Two of the conversation moved on to explore the world
post-Slits. It’s been an interesting journey.

There was another reading. It started about sex and ended up
with cancer. As she finished, instead of the usual applause there was silence.
It spoke volumes about the power and the frankness of her description.

We touched upon aerobics teaching and film-making and then
moved on to a mention of her picking up her guitar again as she turned fifty.
She knew she didn’t intend to take it up seriously, but she did know that if
she played she knew something would happen. A creative energy within her would
be unlocked and she would set off on another journey of making and shaking.
More writing was mentioned. A book. A novel perhaps. Hopefully all will soon be
revealed.

That unlocking of energy is something I understand. There
are many catalysts out there and I reckon it’s our responsibility to go out,
find and experience them. What an important reminder of something fundamental
to life and the creative process that stems from living it. That alone was
worth the price of entry.

After the event my friend and I went to the signing tent for
a while. I had nothing to sign and didn’t fancy queuing. What I did want was to
keep the evening with me for a little longer.

I never did see The Slits play live, but at least on this
occasion I can say I was there.

Tuesday, 25 August 2015

Several years on from reading The Girl With The Dragon
Tattoo I found The
Girl Who Played With Fire (US)
on the shelves of the home we rented for our holiday.

If memory serves, that first book really bamboozled me. I
couldn’t believe that a novel told with such frequent (and long) tangents and
huge slices of back-story and explanation could have been as entertaining as it
was.

In many ways, I feel the same about the sequel. Blomkvist
and Salander are now estranged. Salander has cut off all contact with him and
escaped to travel the world.

Much of the opening section focuses upon her time in
Grenada. She’s hooked on mathematics problems and is curious about a strange
couple who are staying in her hotel. It’s an engaging start, but doesn’t really
have anything to do with the rest of the book.

Things solidify when she
returns to Sweden and hooks up with ex-girlfriend Miriam Wu.

Millennium has taken on a new project courtesy of a
free-lance journalist. His article and book are going to blow the lid off the
sex-trade and will uncover the exploitation of prostitutes by many of the
pillars of polite society.

The prospect of the revelations stirs a hornets’ nest (something
tells me this might also happen in the third book) and a lot of mess hits a lot
of fans.

Salander finds herself as the main suspect in a terrible
crime and the only people who want to protect her are ex-employer Armanski, a
retired boxer and Blomkvist.

In spite of the repetitive reflection and those huge chunks
of unnecessary material, it’s nail-biting stuff. I reckon it works so well
because it’s important to me that Blomkvist and Salander remain safe no matter
what. It’s impossible not to root for them, even when belief in their abilities
and personalities is stretched a very long way.

Unlike with the first book, I was a little dissatisfied with
the ending. Whereas book one felt self-contained, this one seemed totally aimed
at luring the reading to book three. That hook may well work for me, too, but
might just take me several years to get around to completing the trilogy. Who
knows? I might even get to read The Girl In The Spider’s Web before I retire,
but it’s very unlikely that I’ll buy myself a copy – it will be a matter of
staying in the right place on my hols.

Saturday, 22 August 2015

‘He’d cut His throat with the knife. He’d nearly chopped off
His hand with the meat cleaver. He couldn’t object, so I lit a Silk Cut.’

The opening to Morvern
Callar (US)
is very strong. Every action and thought is noted. Each character has a special
name. The buzz and the vividness almost creates the illusion that she’s
speaking in a different language, like she’s just read A Clockwork Orange and
is taking bites from it. Her boyfriend, He/Him/His, has killed himself in their
flat and Callar reacts by doing nothing about it. She opens her Christmas
presents, smokes a lot of Silk Cut and goes off to work in her local
supermarket. There’s a hint that what follows will be something profound. A
tale of disconnection and alienation in the age of the rave. Given the powerful
reviews, I suspect that the profundity is there, it’s just that I didn’t really
grasp it. Perhaps it was a little too cold and raw in places for my taste.

There are wild encounters and travels as Callar takes a
journey that seems to be part nihilism and part self-destruct. She’s on the
road. She lives a life-and-a-half. Her interactions with the people she meets
and her surroundings are interesting and her life is packed full of
experiences. What a cracking woman she is.

I found sections really engrossing and beautifully written
and I think that the book has many parts that make the book worthwhile taking
on. For me, however, I felt that the whole was less than those parts. Then
again, I might just be an old man who’s arrived to the part about twenty years too
late.

Wednesday, 19 August 2015

Last week I sat down to watch the movie A Walk Among The Tombstones with my wife and my dad. My wife didn’t
manage to stay long – the level of violence that is suggested is high and so
her early departure didn’t surprise me. My dad fell asleep for a while, but
that’s got nothing to do with the quality of the film. I managed to stay for
the duration and enjoyed my time with Liam Neeson et al. Overall, I’d say that
it’s a pretty solid film. Neeson does a great job as Scudder and if you like
action and detectives, this should work for you. Above all, I was reminded of
how good a book Tombstones is. The
Scudder series is really excellent and it wasn’t really a surprise to me that
the film didn’t quite do the plotline justice.

During my holiday, I read a Scudder that was new to me
called The
Night And The Music (US).
This one, a little like the film above, is something of a tangent from the main
body of novels. It’s a collection of stories about the detective where he
retells incidents from his past. They’re told in a fairly gentle style, as if
been told over a drink in a bar somewhere after hours. It’s almost conversational
and that works very well in terms of grabbing the attention. What you don’t really
get is the meaty plot or the tension of a novel. In place of that, however, is
a collection of rather playful and almost old-fashioned mysteries.

My own favourite was entitled The Merciful Angel Of Death. Scudder is hired by a nursing home to
investigate a mystery visitor who has a knack of being the final companion of
many of the dying. What I think this piece illustrates, apart from the high
level of writing, is the general dexterity of Lawrence Block’s mind. He finds interesting
plotlines in the strangest places. Other pieces involve the collection of counterfeit
clothing from around the vendors of New York, a suicide and the murder of an
old and very generous bag-lady.

For fans of Scudder, this is a really nice accompanying
piece to have. It may not carry quite the weight of the novels, but it adds another
dimension to the man. To those who haven’t been there yet, try these on for
size. I reckon you’ll really enjoy them and if you do, I’d suggest diving right
in with The
Sins Of The Fathers (US)
(you’ll thank me later, you really will).

Friday, 14 August 2015

‘Naomi was lying on the bed with a bullet hole between her
eyes. The pillow under her head was very red.’

I enjoyed my first venture into the 87th Precinct
a while ago, but felt there were too many voices for my liking.

Eight
Black Horses (US)
was my second visit. I knew from the opening line (‘The lady was
extraordinarily naked’) that I was going to love this one. What made this book
so much more of a pleasure was that there was only one main thread to follow,
the curious fascination of The Deaf Man
with the detectives of the 87th and especially one Steven Louis
Carella.

The book starts with a woman’s body being found dumped in a
local park. That is followed by a series of images sent to the department by The Deaf Man. It’s clear the criminal is
up to something, it’s just that no one in the force can work out what.

There’s a huge amount to savour here. The angle of the
arch-enemy versus the cops works really well because The Deaf Man is such a fantastic creation, mixing a sense of
mischief with the mentality of a mastermind and a ruthless cold streak. It’s
also a joy to get to know the detectives a little better, especially when their
focus is so concentrated. There are some great scenes, many fantastic
one-liners and there’s a mass of humour that contributes to the general tone. I
also got a buzz from the images included with the text, a simple pleasure on
each occasion one appeared.

I thoroughly enjoyed this one and may have finally
discovered why McBain has such an excellent reputation. I’ve already lined up a
couple more 87th Precinct reads and one of them has another run in
with The Deaf Man. I’m really looking
forward to those.

Tuesday, 11 August 2015

A feast of stories here. Crime may be the thing they have in
common, but those crimes are presented in diverse forms. There’s some revenge,
reactions to infidelity, a little double and some triple-crossing along the
way. The inhabitants include deranged characters, alcoholics, drug-crazed
delusionists and a few cold-blooded reptiles who never miss a trick. The
combinations allow for a subtle social commentary and an acknowledgement that much
of what occurs is a directly or indirectly related to disadvantage.

Occasionally there are slivers of hope, but they tend to be
hidden within the cluttered minds of those who live within these pages.

There’s plenty to enjoy for the fan of the short story and,
if you dig lines like this:

“The Mexican said: ‘What you want?’ He spit on the sidewalk
in front of him like a border he dared us to cross.”

then you should definitely give Crooked
Roads (US)
a try. It's currently FREE to boot!

Monday, 3 August 2015

“He suddenly braked in front of a camping supplies shop
advertising its January sale with the slogan NOW IS THE WINTER OF OUR DISCOUNT
TENTS.”

Guns
Of Brixton (US)
fizzes along from the start when the gangster Half-Pint Harry has his brains
blown out in a London lock-up. Of course, this isn’t good for Harry and it
leaves his killer in a difficult position, especially given the Half-Pint’s
importance. What follows is a genuine caper where an assorted bunch of
characters go about their New Year celebrations in a variety of rather interesting
ways.

Take Kenny and Big Jim as an example. They’re dressing up as
women and heading off to rob a big jewellery shop. The assistant greets them as
they enter:

“Morning ladies,” he
beamed. Then he saw the Glock and his jaw dropped so much that you could have
scraped the carpet fluff from his bottom lip.

This situation encapsulates a lot about the story. We have
the cross-dressing thugs, the threat of violence and the hard-boiled humour
that runs through the piece like words through a stick of rock.

To me, Brazill unashamedly brings together a broad range of cultural
strands that I was bombarded with through the seventies and eighties. The style
reflects so many aspects of my TV viewing – the Carry On jokes, Galton and
Simpson, the caricatures of the villain and the common, the pub and the cafe,
Michael Caine and The Sweeney, the slang and the banter and the pantomime. These elements come together into the melting
pot and form a delicious stew of criminal adventure. None of the style and mood
would be of value if it weren’t for the author’s ability to craft a strong
story where the adventure and action always hold the attention, the
observations are sharp and the characters create small nuclear explosions as
they collide with each other.

Guns Of Brixton has a very British flavour to it. I imagine
that as it travels across the Atlantic it might make a few waves along the way but
for those of you in the US who relish a good tale, this is a book that should
be bought and wrestled with.

Sunday, 2 August 2015

The next sequence of reviews is likely to seem a little odd.
While I was away in France, I decided to put my kindle away and read only work
from the bookshelves of the house we rented. This proved to be a hit-and-miss
idea and I rejected a good twenty books from their openings and the rest from
dodgy titles and dreadful covers.

Essentially, it means I read a number of books that I wouldn’t
normally have chosen. It proved to be a pretty good experience and I’m glad I
gave it a try. If nothing else, I realised just how many books I don’t like,
something that’s never really occurred to me before.

What drew me to my first selection were the author and the
amazing cover. Even with these to recommend it, I still entered Chuck Palahniuk’s
Non-Fiction
(US)
with mixed feelings. True stories and journalistic pieces are things I often
struggle to focus upon, especially in a magazine or newspaper format. If they’re
of particular interest, I’ll usually hang in there, but even then they’re not
something I really enjoy.

The introduction to Non-Fiction is excellent and did a lot
to get me in the mood. Among other things, it’s a really interesting look at writers
and writing which offers some real insight. Then came the first piece, Testy Festy
in the People Together section. I almost gave up at that point. This collection
of observations and quotes from a wild sex festival didn’t really work for me.
In some ways it felt like a test – get through this and you’ll be OK. To my mind
it’s the least interesting piece in the collection and is an odd choice for an
opener.

I’m glad I stuck with it in spite of this early experience. What
followed were a series of really fascinating and often moving glimpses into
closed worlds – castle building, demolition derby teams, screenplay
conventions, wrestlers, body-builders, spiritualists and sub-mariners. The
style of the pieces is interesting. They might seem to be collections of random
facts thrown onto the page, but as the montages are layered and built they come
together to offer revealing and moving images. Sometimes there are strings of
quotes, at others there is poetic description. The author throws in personal
tangents and offers a range of angles of reflection.

These personal asides continue into the section entitled
Portraits. I was only aware of a few of the characters in the spotlight, but
that didn’t matter. The pieces were intimate glimpses into the subjects’ lives
and most of them hit the spot.

The final section rounds things off nicely as it brings to
the fore the man who’s taken us on the previous journeys. There’s some overlap
in the material, but rather than spoil things this generally brings a sense of rhythm
to the collection. There’s also a lot of humour here and a rather touching
openness from the author.

By the end, I realised that I’d mostly been gripped by the
work as I might have been by a good novel. The world seemed more expansive than
it had when I began and I liked the author even more by the end than I did at
the start.

I don’t think you need to be a Chuck fan or a Fight Club
fanatic to love this, you just have to be interested in people.